The Evolution of Miriam Yager
by LadyLini
Summary: Miriam Yager was a plain girl, living a not-so-great life, but when her life changes forever... can she deal with the consequences? Set in the Avengers universe.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Currently searching for a Beta. If you're interested or know how to find one, lemme know!**

She hit rock bottom after the third month.

A body can only fall so far before it breaks– she had counted on this, when she jumped. The wind had blown past her, her hair had whipped behind her, creating a brown halo around her. For those few seconds, she had known what it was to fly. And when the ground began to approach, she didn't pull the string that would release her parachute. She expected the darkness when it came, and greeted it with open arms.

She didn't expect to wake up.

The doctors called it a miracle; she called it fraud.

She'd tried something more understated. Four bottles of over-the-counter medication, all taken at once should have done the job. But her body had had no issue with the substances. The darkness didn't even come that time.

She had become desperate. Certainly it shouldn't be this hard. She'd sat at the bottom of the local pool and forced the water into her lungs. Her body, traitorous thing it was, had surfaced of its own accord and spit it right back out, without an issue.

Then she had had enough. This game had become redundant and she'd play no more. So, she taken the traditional route– a bullet through the head. And _oh_, the darkness was welcomed as an old friend when it arrived. She had let her consciousness slip away with a sense of euphoria. It'd taken too long to get here.

She thought she'd won. She thought she was finally done– that the world could no longer follow her.

But when she stood back up, a gaping hole through her forehead, the message was clear.

She couldn't die.

And she had one gargantuan mess to clean up.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Miriam Yager was a plain girl. She was neither short, nor tall, neither pretty, nor ugly. She wasn't outrageously smart, nor was she slow. Her face was one that you see, but can't quite remember when it comes to it. Her hair was cropped to the shoulders and the color of nutmeg. Her eyes were her only striking feature; they were a bright, icy blue, but even they couldn't transform her into anything but the plain girl she was.

Perhaps, if her hair had been blonde, her stature a bit taller, and her legs a bit leaner, she would have been pretty. But they weren't, so Miriam Yager was plain.

She had never met her mother or father. Her father had gotten her mother pregnant and fled. No one seemed quite sure how it happened, or what her mother had done for a living. Though, they were sure of one thing. Her mother hadn't wanted her.

She had given birth to the plain little girl as quickly as was humanly possible, and had put her up for adoption immediately afterward. The woman hadn't even held her new daughter, before demanding that she be taken away.

The social workers and foster parents had come and gone through Miriam Yager's life, leaving her without anything solid. The girls' homes and the foster homes had all blurred together, over the years. But there was always the mystery of her parents to keep her wondering at night.

When Miriam Yager asked the social workers or her foster parents about her true parents, they would tell her the same awful things and the same awful stories about how she came to be. Her social workers never seemed to agree with her foster parents on anything, but if there was ever one thing that there were able to agree on, it was that her parents did _not_ deserve to be parents.

Over the course of many years, Miriam Yager learned to hate her parents.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Her eighteenth birthday came as both a blessing and a curse.

It was a blessing because it meant she was free of "the system." It was a curse because she no longer had "the system" to support her.

Miriam Yager quickly became desperate for money and fell in with the wrong crowds. There were many people who would have predicted such events in her life. She was, after all, a "troubled child." According to society, it was to be expected the first time she was arrested.

As was per usual, Miriam Yager had been out late, trying fervently to find a way, _any_ way to make a dime. She had been tired and cranky after nearly forty-eight hours of no sleep. And that man had been downright _asking _for it.

After her bail was posted by a sympathetic social worker, –though, not sympathetic enough to loan her a spare room– Miriam Yager had attempted to defend herself, explaining that the man had provoked her. And, while he _had_ provoked her, he hadn't done it intentionally.

The man Miriam Yager had attacked was Shaun Carlton and he worked for very wealthy people. Miriam Yager, of course, did not know this. She had simply seen a well-to-do man in a suit, sitting in the not-so-well-to-do neighborhood.

It wasn't fair that there were people who had never wanted for anything. It wasn't fair that they had never wondered where their next meal would come from– if it would come at all. And he was just _sitting there_, reading whatever it was he had been reading.

That white-hot rage had coursed through her veins, turning her from a passive lamb into an enraged bull. If there was one thing Miriam Yager could _not_ stand, it was the upper-classes, particularly those who walked about with their noses in the air, oblivious to the everyday struggles of the lower-classes.

It wasn't _fair._

She had glared at him from across the alley.

He had demanded to know what she was looking at.

And then she'd snapped.

Oh, _Zeus_ it'd felt good to shake him– to strike his face, to ram her elbows into his stomach and chest…

Miriam Yager had no regrets, and as the police officer dragged her away from the upper-class man, she had called out, taunting him.

This wasn't her last criminal offense, by any measure. But it was the one that she would remember most– and not for the reasons you'd think.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Miriam Yager, despite her brushes with the law, managed to find a relatively stable job, working as a sales clerk at a clothing store. The pay was absolutely nothing to brag about and the whole place smelled like old, woolen socks, but it was money.

Though the cash flow was nothing more than a trickle, Miriam Yager managed to pay the right people the right amount and still set a bit aside. But it was enough. She managed to secure an apartment in one of the more run-down neighborhoods. It was tiny, with a handkerchief sized living room, a pocket-sized kitchen, and a piece-of-lint-from-your-pocket-sized bathroom. Miriam Yager slept on the sofa.

Her living situation certainly wasn't ideal, but it was all that she had. And that was enough for her, for the moment. She was an individual soul who didn't enjoy or approve of dependency on another. She had learnt young that people weren't dependable or trust worthy. They always said they'd stay, but the second she turned her back on them… they disappeared faster than the starving devour a hot meal.

She had worked at the clothing store for just over a year and a half, when her first and only promotion came about. Miriam Yager was promoted from "sales clerk" to "sales associate." In all this time, she had yet to put down any sort of root or make any friends. She had acquaintances and colleagues. That was it. And that was okay.

It was on her way into work one day, nearly four years after her eighteenth birthday, that Miriam Yager's life changed entirely.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Still searching for a Beta. I've revised this as best I can on my own, but it's hard for me to look at this objectively, as I'm the one writing it. I really value the second opinion.**

**Okay, I've rambled enough! Enjoy!**

Miriam's morning started early; they always did. She relished the relative quiet that came with the early morning hours. New York, of course, was never completely silent, yet there were corners, small little pockets, where, if you were careful, you could find something resembling silence. It was in one of these pockets that the man reappeared.

Miriam was sitting on a dumpster, the lid clamped tightly shut beneath her, perusing the daily paper, when she heard the telltale _tap, tap, tap_ of footsteps. She was no idiot– she knew what happened to small girls in alleys when there was no one around. But, this was, of course, an alley, with only one exit, so she held her ground. She didn't get up. She didn't try to flee. Perhaps whoever it was would pass her by. Maybe she was overreacting.

The footsteps turned down the alley, as if they were searching for her.

Miriam reached into her back pocket, feeling for her pepper spray.

The body belonging to the footsteps emerged from around the corner, slowly and hesitantly, hands raised in the universal gesture of peace.

It took Miriam exactly two seconds to place the face– she'd beaten it nearly to a pulp. "Back for more?" she called, her casual demeanor resumed. She nonchalantly folded her paper into fourths and tucked it away.

"No," the man replied, cautiously approaching her dumpster, "I'm here about a job." He was in what looked to be the same suit– though Miriam knew it couldn't be, as she'd torn it to threads– that he'd worn the first time they'd met.

"Yeah?" Miriam snorted dismissively. "Good luck findin' one around here."

The man relaxed his arms a bit, lowering them from over his head, while still keeping them visible to the girl perched on the dumpster. "Not for me," he said, his accent thick and foreign, "I have a job for you."

"I've got a job," Miriam informed him, sliding down to the ground. Drug deals weren't her thing.

"Not like this one," the man assured her.

"Thanks," she said sarcastically, brushing roughly past him, "but no cigar."

"Look at this," the man pleaded, pulling a file from his brief case, "You will like it."

Miriam almost laughed. _Almost_. "And what makes you think that?"

"Your profile," the man answered, before sucking in a breath. He realized his mistake.

"My profile?" Miriam repeated dubiously, "What are you, some sort of copper?"

"No," the man replied, his hands in the air once more, "No, nothing of the sort–"

But Miriam had heard enough. She spun around and grabbed the poor man by the lapels of his suit, shoving him up against the alley wall. "Explain," she demanded through clenched teeth, "Explain or I'll give you another dose of what you deserve, assault charges or not."

"I am sorry," the man said instead.

Miriam opened her mouth to demand an explanation once more, when she felt a sharp twinge in her side. When she looked down, she was just in time to see the man's hand slip a vile back into his pocket. "What did you do to me?" she gasped, falling away from him, as her legs began to go numb. "Is this– is this some sort of drug?"

"It is a drug, I suppose, by definition," the man allowed, carefully brushing the dust off his shoulders, "And I _am_ sorry, but I'm afraid the situation required it."

"What– situation?" Miriam spit, her hand pressed into her side, as it that would stop the drug from spreading. Too quickly, though, she lost feeling in her legs and fell to the ground, rather unceremoniously.

"Ours," the man responded cryptically.

Miriam didn't reply– she couldn't. The drug, whatever it was, had spread into her arms, leaving them as dead weights hanging from her sides. Her torso slumped against the alley wall, head twisted at an unnatural angle. It would've been painful for her, if she could feel it, but Miriam was already unconscious.

"I am sorry," the man muttered once more, as he dragged her limp body to the waiting van.

-l-l-l-l-l-

When she was a young girl, Miriam Yager had learnt to fight. She had learned to fight dirty. She had learnt all the tricks of the trade. One of her favorites, arguably her signature, was the way in which she regained consciousness after a KO. Miriam Yager didn't groan or moan. She didn't twitch her fingers or roll over. She didn't move at all. She stayed still as a stone until she was fully conscious and ready for action.

And even then, all those years later, Miriam Yager stayed still. She took in her surroundings as best she could, despite her lack of vision and movement. Her hands were tied– tightly, behind her. She was sitting in a chair, straight against it. Her feet were tied as well, to the legs of the chair. Interestingly, there wasn't a gag in her mouth.

Her head was lolled forward, hair flowing around her, giving her enough cover to peek out through her eyelashes. There was a metal table in front of her. Across this table was the man from the alley, still in the same jet black suit, though now he wore a lab coat and his hair was freshly combed.

All at once, Miriam Yager yanked against her bonds, as hard as she could. Her chair wobbled, but didn't fall. Her bonds cut into her wrists and ankles, but didn't snap.

She lifted her head slowly, glaring at the man across from her. "Where am I?" she demanded.

"Safe," the man assured her.

Miriam scoffed. "Sure. And I'm a tutu-wearing chipmunk."

The man shrugged. "If you'd like a tutu…"

Miriam spat at him.

He recoiled slightly, unused to this sort of behavior. "You are in a research facility. That is all you need to know."

Miriam gestured to her surroundings with her head. "I disagree."

"Very well." The man leaned forward on his hands, folding them under his chin. "You have been recruited. You will accept the job… and you will fulfill the job."

To this, Miriam made a two word reply, in which she encouraged himself to have sexual relations with himself.

The man didn't react. He simply stood and moved around the table to loom over her. "I'm sorry," he murmured, as he slipped the vile back out.

This time, though, the darkness came quickly and silently, without a second for her to panic. Perhaps, he was trying to be kind.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Miriam Yager never did understand just exactly what happened to her in that facility. She never knew exactly who the people there were, nor did she understand why they had done the things they did to her. Her memories of the place were scarce and hazy at best. When asked of her time spent there, she would shut down and refuse to speak.

She was kept unconscious, most of the time, but she would occasionally fight her way into consciousness. When she did, she was only ever greeted by pain. There were always tubes connected to her, machines beeping, and people shouting numbers at each other. Within seconds of regaining herself, Miriam would be given more of the sedative and would return to the darkness.

Over time, she grew to embrace the darkness. It was much more pleasant than the alternative. However, as the time wore on, her time in the darkness became less and less, and her time in the pain became more. That was how she came to differentiate between what she would later think of as the Two Stages– Stage One was when her time was spent in the darkness, in relative calm. Stage Two was when she spent her time in pain and suffering. If there was ever a sound that she affiliated with Stage Two, it was her own screams.

Her days were an endless repeat of each other; screaming, darkness, more screaming, then darkness. Occasionally, if she was in dire need of a difference in schedule, her itinerary could be altered to screaming, darkness, and extended period of screaming, and less darkness.

One day, though, her schedule took a drastic change. She actually _woke up_. She didn't wake up to her own screams– she woke up, strapped to a medical table, without any tubes or machinery strapped to her. Her body was her own. She could hear people milling around her, whispering to each other. She could hear everything they said. She could feel the table beneath her– every fiber of it. She could taste the chemicals in the air on her tongue. She could smell the sweat of the bodies around her and somewhere– in the far corner of the room– a wilted, dying flower. She couldn't see, though– her eyes were still closed.

She felt _strong_.

The restraints around her wrists and ankles were a thick leather; more than enough to hold the average weight lifter. But she was no longer just an average girl. She pulled her wrists away from the table first, leather and all. Her ankles were no harder.

Around her, the people in lab coats shrieked in terror and fled to the doors. Three men, two of which were in a black security guard's uniform, made their way cautiously toward her, guns drawn.

"We don't want to hurt you," one of them told her soothingly.

Miriam ignored him and marveled at the control she had over her body. Besides, his gun contradicted his statement too sharply for her to take him seriously.

Miriam hadn't the faintest idea as to how she'd done what she'd done, but as it occurred to her that these people were afraid of her, she realized she had the upper hand. She fled from the men. She ran through the facility until she reached a window. Miriam didn't slow down as she burst through the window. She hit the ground running.

Pedestrians on the street gave her odd looks, and they had every right to. She'd just jumped out a window, wearing a hospital gown that did absolutely nothing to cover her rear. So they stared and Miriam ran.

Miriam didn't know how long she ran or how far she ran. She didn't stop until she had left the lights of New York City far, far behind.

And when she finally stopped, she didn't feel tired.


	3. Chapter 2

She spent the night in the loft of a stranger's barn, curled amongst the hay, hidden by the tools and tarps. Miriam hadn't the faintest idea where she had come from. She didn't know if the people who had kept her there would follow her. She didn't know. Not knowing was not okay with Miriam Yager.

By the time daylight finally peeked through the window in the loft, Miriam Yager was still asleep. Her body had endured unimaginable torture– torture she wasn't even aware of. So, she slept. Her sleep wasn't by any means peaceful. No, sleep is the mind's way of hitting "save," after a long day. For Miriam's mind to "save" everything she'd been through was a whole new type of torture. This was mental.

They may have made her body strong, but they couldn't do anything about her mind. Her mind was still her own. Despite the nightmares that would begin to plague her, Miriam Yager held this thought close to her heart. It was a comfort during her darkest moments that she still owned this small part of herself.

When Miriam had entered the barn, she hadn't exactly been planning ahead. It hadn't even occurred to her that the barn may be used by its owners. It came as a complete surprise to Miriam when she was awoken –roughly– by an older man, dressed in plaid and overalls, holding a pitchfork. He didn't seem happy to see her in all her hospital-gown-glory, asleep in his loft.

Miriam sprang up and away, much quicker than she would've been able to before whatever it was that had been done to her.

"Hello, there." He regarded her skeptically– it wasn't, after all, very common for him to find strange women asleep in his hay loft.

"Hello," she replied. Her voice was hoarse. She hadn't used it for months, but for screaming and that didn't exactly count.

The man leaned on his pitchfork, as if the two words he'd spoken had exhausted him. "You wanna tell me what you're a-doin' in my barn?" he asked, absently running his fingers through his beard.

"Sleeping," Miriam answered. She hadn't lost her sass. That was good. That was one of her favorite traits.

"I can see that," the man told her, his tone unimpressed.

"I'll go now," Miriam added and brushed past him, heading for the hole in the floor of the loft.

"Not dressed like that," the man called after her.

Miriam paused, her foot already on the first rung of the ladder. "Dressed like what?"

"You know what," he responded. He was right, of course. She did know that she couldn't continue walking the streets dressed in a hospital gown. People would call the cops– and then where would she be? Back in that _place?_ No, _thank_ you. "C'mon– up to the house. My wife oughta have something that'll fit you."

Miriam gaped at him for a full minute, before stammering out a thank you. "I didn't know people like you still existed," she added, more to herself than anyone else.

"People like me?" he repeated dubiously, as he shooed her away from the ladder and began his own descent, "What's that s'posed to mean?"

Miriam shrugged. "Nice. Kind."

The man stepped away from the ladder and looked back up at her, his smile now obvious. "Thank you."

Miriam leapt down from the loft, ignoring the ladder and shocked herself. She didn't know why she'd done it, or how she'd made the jump without even a twinge of pain in her ankles.

The man narrowed his eyes at her. "You're not doin' drugs or somethin', are ya?"

Miriam shook her head. "I don't think so," she said honestly.

As the man lead her to the house, he shook his head and muttered under his breath. "Dunno why I'm doing this. I must've finally lost it."

Miriam ignored him and let him mutter. She was too busy staring at the house. She hadn't given the house much thought when she'd come, last night; it'd been far too dark. It was small, one story, and blue. The windows were clean and the drapes were white. The house had a porch and a faded brown door.

Miriam couldn't help feeling a stab of jealously as she took in this man's home. His _home_. The one thing she'd always wanted most.

He made her wait on the porch, while he went inside and spoke with his wife. He returned a few minutes later, holding a small stack of neatly folded clothing.

Miriam thanked him profusely and was cautiously admitted into their bathroom to shower and change. When she reemerged, she felt like a new person. Despite it being so cliche, it really was how she felt– the new strength she felt flowing through her veins, the new tightly-fitting clothing… Miriam Yager felt nothing like the Miriam Yager she'd come to know, during her lifetime.

The man was waiting for her, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in his hand.

Miriam threw the hospital gown into the trashcan, causing it to wobble noisily.

"You clean up nice," he commented, as he eyed her.

Miriam thanked him again and stood awkwardly by the garbage can.

"You wanna tell me who you are?" The question was followed by a loud slurp of coffee. "If you don't, I s'pose that's alright too, specially if you're runnin' from the cops… Less I know the better and all that."

Miriam hesitated, but only for a moment. This man, this nameless man, despite all that he had done for her, couldn't be told what had happened to her. It wasn't fair to involve him. "I'm Lana," she lied, "Lana Tyler."

"Then sit down, Lana Tyler," he replied, gesturing to the chair opposite himself.

Miriam sat.

"You're not runnin' from the cops, are ya?" he asked gently, assuming.

Miriam shook her head. "I don't think so, anyway."

"You don't think so?" the man asked skeptically, taking another long gulp of the coffee in his mug. "How's that work?"

"I– I don't know," she admitted, "It's complicated."

"Complicated, eh?" The old man laughed. "Try me."

Miriam looked down at the table in front of her. She couldn't tell this man what had been done to her. She may be putting him in danger just by being here– No, she couldn't confide in him, much as she wanted to. Miriam Yager took a deep breath as a way to put off the inevitable lie. "I was– there was this party," she began, the lie weaving itself. "I guess I had a bit too much to drink." She tried to throw in an embarrassed laugh, but it came off as more of a strangled choking sound. "Someone –my friend, Josh– dared me to put on the gown. So, I did." Miriam lifted her shoulders up and down as if to say 'and that's that.' "I must've passed out in your barn on my way home." Had she always been this good at lying? Miriam couldn't remember.

In fact, she couldn't remember a lot. Her address, for example, eluded her, as did her phone number. Miriam shook her head, trying to clear it.

"That doesn't sound so complicated," the man noted, reclining further into his chair.

Miriam shrugged. "Guess not," she admitted. What did her apartment look like? The building it was housed in?

"Somethin' botherin' you?" the man asked, "I swear, if you're on drugs…"

"I'm not," Miriam assured him, "It's just– I can't remember…" she trailed off, searching for the little things. Where did she work? Who was her boss? "I can't remember my favorite color," she squeaked in shock.

The old man chortled. "I'm not surprised. The amount o' booze you'd have ta' drink to end up in ma loft–" He broke off, overcome by laughter.

This angered Miriam beyond her own comprehension. How _dare _he laugh at her?She was having none of it. "I – can't – _remember,_" she spat. With that, she stormed out of the kitchen, out of the old man's house, and back into the fields. She ran and ran. Running seemed all she was capable of, anymore.

_Who am I?_


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks to Linnende for letting me know that this chapter was messed up! (Dunno how that happened...) Anyway, R&R, as always!**

For Miriam Yager, twenty-four hour convenience stores turned out to be very convenient. The particular place she stopped at had a row of gas pumps out front, with three cars already parked and filling up their tanks; the early rush hour.

Miriam stood outside the convenience store for a long while before she finally worked up the courage to go in. She didn't have a clue of what to expect. Where had she escaped from? Were they looking for her? If they were looking for her, how hard were they looking? Was she in danger?

But when she pushed the door open and no one jumped her or even so much as gave her a second look, she began to relax. Perhaps she was being paranoid. Regardless, she grabbed a basket from the stack by the door and filled it with as much food and as many bottles of water of as she could. It wasn't until she got to the register that she realized that she had no money to pay with. Miriam didn't even have a watch or phone she could bribe someone with.

She slammed the basket down on the floor in frustration. Nothing. She had nothing.

The young girl running the register gave her a strange look.

Miriam stalked out of the store. She very nearly walked away and began running again. But despite her new strength, she was tired of running. Not physically, but mentally. It was boring and slow.

A car. She needed a car.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Thomas grumbled as he pulled himself out of his father's car and swiped his credit card to begin the gas flowing through the nozzle. He grumbled some more while he waited for the tank to fill.

The tank should've been full– that was what the deal he'd had with Lars. God, he was so _stupid._ He shouldn't have let his friend borrow his father's car, much less let him borrow it _without permission_. His father was probably having an ulcer right now. He loved the damn car. Sometimes, Thomas wondered if both he and the car were dangling over a cliff, which his father would chose to save.

The pump jerked suddenly, catching a bit of Thomas's finger's skin between the handle and the lever. He cursed and sucked his finger, as he pulled the nozzle out and screwed the gas cap back on. He slammed the gas flap closed, taking a bit of his resentment out on it. This day was going awfully.

Thomas turned around and placed the nozzle back in the machine and pressed a few buttons to let the machine know he was done.

Behind him, he heard an engine rev and tires squeal as a car pelted out of the station. Thomas rolled his eyes as he pocketed his wallet. People were so _impatient_ sometimes.

When he turned back around to get into his father's car, he screamed in frustration and very nearly pulled his hair out of his scalp. His father's car was _gone_.

His father was going to have a cow. More likely, he was going to have the whole barn.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Miriam had come a long way.

As she drove back toward the city of New York, she came to realize just how far she'd been able to run in a single night. It scared her. No one should've been able to get this far out of the city so quickly.

But she had.

Miriam wasn't thrilled over the prospect of returning to the city that housed the facility, but she also knew that if she was going to get any sort of answer, that it was going to come from New York. Preferably, straight from the mouths of the people that had done _whatever_ it was they'd done to her.

While she drove, Miriam concentrated on pulling images out of her past. She found it difficult, as if her mind had repressed the details. Perhaps they were somehow linked to what had happened in the facility. That would make sense. Then again, maybe they weren't and it was yet another thing that the people at the facility had done to her. Either way, it bothered her.

It was getting harder and harder to remember things from before her time in that facility. Had she had any friends? What about neighbors? Acquaintances? Pets?

Each time she dug into the depths of her mind, she resurfaced empty handed and eventually, she gave up. It was a pointless, fruitless search. She'd have to make do with the memories she still had.

As the buildings began to get closer together, Miriam refocused herself on her surroundings, keeping an eye on the other drivers, but mostly watching for cop cars. She'd been driving for hours now; the boy she'd stolen the car from was bound to have called the cops by now.

As soon as the buildings morphed into skyscrapers, Miriam pulled into a parking garage, parked the car, and left it, keys on the seat. She wouldn't be coming back to it.

She took to the crowded streets on foot, allowing herself to be jostled by the evening rush of commuters. She hadn't realized just how long she'd been driving. It was nearly nightfall.

In her old life, Miriam would have been nervous at the prospect of the sun going down, leaving the streets darkened and dangerous. But now, it didn't faze her. She knew –she could _feel_– that she'd be able to take care of herself. Street thugs weren't going to pose a threat to her.

It didn't take her long to decide though, that she needed a place to stay. As she didn't remember where her apartment was, she decided to ask around. Maybe someone, somewhere, knew her and could point her in the right direction.

She should've known it wouldn't be that easy.

-l-l-l-l-l-

The first apartment building Miriam tried was a failure. So was the second. And the third. And the fourth. By the fifth, she was ready to give up.

It was long past midnight, to the point where it could be easily called the next day. She was understandably exhausted. So when she lost her temper, in the sixth building, it shouldn't have been a big deal. A harsh word or a rude gesture and it would've been over with.

And that's all it started as. Miriam huffed at the ignorant receptionist. The receptionist grumbled under his breath. Miriam muttered.

The receptionist was the initiator. Miriam turned to leave and he, the stupid, _stupid _man he was, wasn't able to resist that final taunt.

"_Arschloch._"

Miriam froze in the doorway. She didn't know what it translated to, but she could guess. Miriam turned slowly, angrily around, trying desperately not to loose her cool. "_What_ did you just call me?" she inquired. Her tone was the second the water receded, just before a tsunami strikes.

"You heard me," the idiot replied smugly, "A_rschloch_."

Miriam felt something in her begin to creak. A small fissure appeared in her self-control. She should've walked out. She shouldn't have risen to the challenge. She should've done a thousand things differently. She should've… she should've… she should've…

She stared at the man behind the desk. "Say it one more time," Miriam requested. She shouldn't have.

"_Arschloch_."

The word echoed through the lobby. The imbecile grinned. Miriam felt the snap.

It took less than a second for her to be on him. The poor cretin never had a chance. Miriam was a hurricane– a storm of limbs. Adrenaline and something _else_ flooded through her. Her veins felt like they were on fire. Her face face was red. Her eyes were crazed. Her nostrils flared. Her fists came down again and again.

The receptionist cried out. He screamed and howled with pain. He yelled and pleaded with God to save him, to spare him. He yowled his prayers into the night.

It didn't take long for him to wake the residents of his building. But by the time the first investigators entered the lobby, she was gone.

The receptionist was splayed on the floor, a pool of his own blood surrounding him. He wasn't dead– no, some small part of _Miriam_ had leaked through her fists and demanded that the poor dunce be left alive.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Miriam fled through the doors and back onto the street. She ran and ran for blocks and blocks. She dashed around corners and skidded into alleys. She pounded over concrete and hurtled over pavement.

It wasn't until she finally paused in an alley, leaning against the brick of the building behind her, that she finally realized what she'd done.

Miriam knew what happened next. The receptionist calls the police. The police come. The police hunt her down. She goes to prison– for real this time; she isn't a minor anymore, and this isn't her first offense.

Miriam hadn't wanted to do what she did. It had been as if some other consciousness had taken control over her body and used it for its own purposes.

She remembered the way her balled hands had slammed into him. She remembered his screams. She remembered how he had begged her to stop.

She hadn't been able to. She couldn't stop.

She slid down against the wall and her head fell into her hands. Miriam shook. Liquid ran in rivers down her face_. How could I have done this?_

It was his fault.

It was Miriam's fault.

It depended on who you asked.

It was the facility's fault.


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: May I just say– wow. I wasn't expecting to get any reviews or follows on my first fic. Big, big, big, _huge_ thanks to everyone who reviewed/followed. You guys rock harder than bedrock! 3**

If the sun didn't unerringly rise every morning, Miriam Yager might have fallen under the impression that it had a personal vendetta against her.

She hadn't chosen to fall asleep in the alley; it had more just _happened,_ and when the sun decided to shine down on her, she was less than ecstatic to be woken up. She was even less enthusiastic when she saw that she was being watched.

Miriam lifted her head slowly, in an effort to collect herself. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and peered at the stranger.

The stranger watched her. Then he spoke. "That can't be comfortable," he said, indicating the way in which she was curled into the corner of the alley.

"Maybe it is," Miriam retorted, her voice scratchy from sleep.

"What's your name?" he asked, taking a hesitant step toward her from where he stood in the mouth of the alley.

Miriam eyed him warily and pulled herself to her feet.

The man shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, then added, "I'm John."

Miriam shrugged, but decided to play nice. "John what?"

"John Smith," he stated, holding out his hand.

Miriam laughed for the first time that she could remember. "Oh yeah? And who named ya that?" she asked rhetorically.

"My mother," he informed her, dropping his hand.

"She must've hated you," Miriam observed, "A lot."

John ignored the comment. "You look like hell," he noted.

Miriam rolled her eyes. "_Thanks_," she said sarcastically.

"Seriously," he said, "You need a shower."

Miriam glowered at him. Oh, he was just _asking_ for it. Standing there in his pristine clothes, his ginger hair carefully styled to look like it wasn't…

She remembered the events of the previous night, though, and pushed those feelings to the back of her head. She resolved in that split second that that would _never_ happen again. Ever.

"And what do you propose I do about that?" Miriam inquired, making to push past him, back onto the street.

John shrugged. "Follow me." With that, he turned and walked away.

Miriam stood for a moment, deliberating, but in the end, her curiosity got the best of her. Besides, she knew she could take care of herself if things turned sour. She wasn't exactly the weak little girl that relied on pepper spray anymore. Miriam Yager followed John Smith.

He lead her around the corner and into an apartment building. Thankfully, it wasn't one that Miriam had been in the previous night. She drank in the lobby, searching for anything that looked familiar. Nothing stood out.

They got in the elevator.

"Where are we going?" Miriam asked, as the elevator took them past the fourth floor.

"My place," John informed her.

The elevator _ding_ed once at the eleventh floor.

"This way," he said, turning left out of the elevator and walking quickly down the hall.

Miriam followed him slowly. Her days were beginning to catch up with her. She hadn't eaten or drank since– since the facility, she realized, and had slept fitfully during the nights since then. If she kept this up, she wouldn't have her newfound strength much longer.

John pulled a key-ring from his pocket and fumbled for a second with the keys on it, before selecting the correct one and inserting it into the lock. He didn't turn around to make sure that Miriam followed him in. He assumed she would, and that irked Miriam.

She paused in the doorway and glanced around. It was a typical apartment. The door opened into the sitting room, with the kitchen hanging off of it. There was a terrace and a bathroom, both easily visible from her position by the door.

The place was almost a mess. There were books and papers strewn across all of the surfaces. Shoe-prints littered the floor and Miriam was pretty sure the trash hadn't been emptied in weeks. But there was a method to the madness, Miriam was sure. Everything was in stacks or piles.

She took a hesitant step into the apartment and looked a little closer at the papers on the shelf by the door, but couldn't find a pattern.

"C'mon," John called from the hallway, "The shower's this way."

Miriam stepped away from the shelf, as if she'd been caught doing something she wasn't supposed to. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, as she moved toward the hall.

John shrugged. "I do this a lot."

Miriam laughed for the second time in twenty minutes. "What, let strangers shower in your apartment?"

John nodded. "A shower, then I take 'em –you– to the shelter."

Miriam dismissed his statement. Maybe he was mental. Maybe he was a cop. Miriam didn't care. She walked into the bathroom and locked the door behind her.

Exactly seventeen minutes later, she reemerged.

John grinned from the couch when he saw her. "Much better," he praised her.

"Thanks." Her gaze wandered, though, into the kitchen. Miriam forced herself to stay where she was. It was so close… But she wasn't a thief. She wasn't _bad._

John noticed her gaze and asked her if she was hungry.

Miriam shook her head, then mentally cursed herself out. _What _was she thinking? Her pride could be salvaged later.

Thankfully, her stomach growled, giving her away.

John just rolled his eyes and hopped up from the couch. He crossed the sitting room in four long strides and pulled open one of the many cabinets in the kitchen. He rummaged for a moment, before popping his head up over the counter and tossing her a box of energy bars.

She inhaled them, while John watched. When she finished the box, he handed her another. She inhaled those too.

"Blimey," he muttered, "When was the last time you ate?"

"Three days," Miriam replied, opening another energy bar.

John raised his eyebrows. "And you're not dead?"

Miriam waved her free hand in front of his face. "Not yet– look, you can touch it. Still alive."

He waited the duration of one energy bar, before speaking again. "You know, you're sitting here cleaning out my supply of food and you still haven't told me your name."

Miriam looked up at him. What should she tell him? "Miriam," she decided, "My name is Miriam."

He nodded. "Nice to meet you, Miriam." He leaned against the counter. "Where do you come from?" he asked.

Miriam felt her heart rate increase. He was just making small talk, she knew. He wasn't intentionally asking her questions she couldn't or shouldn't answer. "I don't remember," she answered him truthfully. She didn't know why she was being truthful. It was probably a stupid thing to do. Then again, she didn't know why she'd followed him, either. Maybe she felt like she owed it to him.

John raised his eyebrows again. "You don't _remember_?"

Miriam nodded. "It's complicated," she said, echoing the explanation she'd given the farmer.

"Un-complicate it, then," John requested.

Miriam swallowed. Miriam chewed and swallowed another bite. "You wouldn't believe me," she finally said.

"Try me."

It was a challenge.

Miriam rose to the challenge. She didn't know why. Maybe it was the red hair that flopped just a little bit too far into his eyes. Maybe it was the round, baby-like face. Maybe she was just tired of keeping it to herself.

She told him everything. Everything she could remember. Everything since the facility.

When she got done, he simply stared at her. Then he surprised her. "So you're not homeless, then."

Miriam stared at him. "Er– no."

John ran a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes.

"You don't think I'm crazy?" Miriam queried.

John shook his head. "I believe you."

"But–" Miriam began, but he cut her off.

"Believe me," he said, "I've heard stranger."

They sat in silence for a while, after that. Eventually, John broke it.

"So– are you like a superhero, then?" he wanted to know. Miriam couldn't tell if he was teasing her.

Miriam shook her head slowly. "I'm more of the super villain," she murmured, staring down that the empty box of energy bars.

John regarded her. "I don't believe that," he said, "Not for a second."

Miriam didn't protest aloud, but she knew that he was wrong. The superhero wouldn't have beaten the receptionist.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: I just wanted to say thank you again, to all my followers/reviewers. You guys give me that warm, fuzzy feeling in my stomach, whenever I see those alerts. Thank you so, so, so, ****_so_**** much!**

John Smith's couch was lumpy. It was old, smelled like dust, and lumpy. But Miriam slept. She slept longer than she'd slept in a long time. He'd never really _said_ she could, but when John brought out an extra pillow and blanket and layed them on the couch, Miriam assumed.

They hadn't spoken much after Miriam had told him about the facility. She wondered if she'd scared him. Perhaps he was only letting her stay because he was afraid of what she'd do to him if he didn't. The thought nagged at her while she slept, but it wasn't enough to disrupt her; she was far too tired for that.

-l-l-l-l-l-l-

Morning crept up on Miriam like a cat would a toy. Slowly, at first, then pounced, waking her abruptly from her slumber.

John was already awake, standing over the stove in the kitchen. The sounds of grease popping and sizzling, mixed with the aroma of something frying were more than enough to entice Miriam.

She sat up on the couch and stretched, before padding into the kitchen.

"Morning," he greeted her.

Miriam yawned and returned the greeting.

"Sleep well?" John asked conversationally, dropping spices into the pan.

Miriam nodded. "Better than I have in a long time," she answered, "Thanks. A lot."

John grinned good-naturedly. "Well, I figure once you're a big hero like Iron Man, you can thank me on CNN."

Miriam rolled her eyes. "I told you, I'm not a hero."

John shrugged. "I think you are– you just don't know it yet."

"Why?" she challenged him, "You've known me for less than twenty-four hours."

"You didn't kill me in my sleep, last night," John offered, "and you said 'thank you.' What kind of villain says 'thank you?'"

It was Miriam's turn to shrug. "I don't know."

"Exactly!" John cried, flinging the wooden spoon he was holding into the air, to punctuate his exclamation. "So you can't be the villain, because villains don't say 'thank you.'"

"Maybe I'm just an extra," Miriam responded, leaning over the counter.

John shook his head vehemently. "You're too pretty to be an extra. Besides, do the extras ever get superpowers?"

Miriam groaned. "I don't have superpowers. I don't even know what I am anymore," she whispered, staring down at her hands.

John opened his mouth to reply, but couldn't think of anything to say. _He_ certainly didn't know what she was.

"I might not even be human," she added, her voice barely audible.

John watched her watch her hands. How could he respond to that?

Thankfully, she changed the topic. "Why did you let me stay?" she asked, "I told you what they did– what _I_ did. And you let me stay. Why?"

"I don't know," he said, "I guess I was curious."

Miriam looked up at him. "Curious about what?"

"You," John answered, "What happened to you… What you can do, I suppose. You don't exactly run into someone like you everyday."

Miriam didn't end up replying to his statement, because at that moment, whatever it was John had been frying began to smoke

John cursed and rushed back to the stove. He turned off the heat and all but threw the pan into the sink.

Miriam wandered back into the sitting room, while he cleaned up the kitchen, and began absently flicking through channels on his television. The twenty-third channel, on her fourth round through, caught her eye.

At first, she couldn't figure out why, when she realized what she was looking at. The banner at the bottom of the screen was running the morning's stock points. There was a young newscaster standing in front of a pile of rubble, babbling about things she couldn't begin to understand.

"…There are two confirmed dead at the scene… Carl, this place is a mess… Origins of the blast are still unknown…"

Theories like "suicide bombing" and "gas leak" filtered through to her ears. She missed most of what the newscaster was saying, though, because her attention was diverted to something else– the house.

The small, two-story, blue house, with its white-lace curtains and brown-wood door, was decimated. Utterly decimated. Where it once stood was nothing but a small crater and still-burning wood.

The barn still stood.

-l-l-l-l-l-

After John had finished cleaning the kitchen, he poured two bowls of cereal, having given up on the stove for the time being.

"I hope you like Cheerios–" he began, as he came into the sitting room, but cut off when he saw Miriam. Tears were flowing down her face in unconfined rivers. Her eyes were windows into a place of mental torture.

He set the bowls down on the coffee table and stood awkwardly over her, unsure of what to do. Finally, he decided to sit down next to her. "Do you always get this emotional over the news?" he asked softly. The channel was now broadcasting a story about the local schools.

Miriam shook her head and sniffed. "I did that," she choked out, staring blankly at the screen.

John glanced at the television. "You upped Riverside Elementary's test scores by twenty-seven percent?" he asked dubiously, "Isn't that a good thing?"

Miriam wiped at her face helplessly. "I didn't even know his name– I didn't think to ask."

John handed her a tissue. "Whose name?" he asked gently.

"The farmer's," she answered into the tissue, "They did that, because I– I was _there_."

"Who?" John asked again, downright confused.

But Miriam stood up abruptly, and walked into the bathroom, slamming the door weakly behind her.

Miriam collapsed onto the toilet, the seat down, and sobbed. _They killed him because he helped me,_ she realized.

The realization struck her hard, straight across the cheek. She had just put John, nice, kind, _good _John, in the same boat as the farmer. How could she have been so stupid?

It was there, on the toilet, in a stranger's bathroom, that Miriam made a vow.

She would get her answers. She would find these people. And these people would answer for what they'd done.


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hey! So sorry about the break between chapters. I uploaded Chapter 5 to the doc. manager, but forgot to actually _publish_ it. Wow. Congratulations, Me. You get a trophy for "Most Absent-Minded Person Alive." Anyway, enjoy the chapter! Quick warning, though. It does get a bit dark, toward the end, but it starts nice and happy! ... Mostly.**

John Smith was a very good listener. He had to be, because Miriam wasn't going to let him get a word in edgewise.

This was what she did. She moved on. She kept going. She ran and didn't look back. But the pain was always there, underneath. If she stopped, it would consume her.

She didn't even know what she was talking about. She was just talking, making sounds with her mouth that conveyed pictures to the listener.

"… and they'll answer for it; they can't _not_," Miriam was saying. She hadn't realized it, but she was thinking aloud. Her train of thought wasn't one that, ideally, would've been shared with anyone.

This was where John cut her off. One word, very simple. "Stop."

Miriam looked over at him, as if he'd spoken after a long stretch of silence. For her, he had. "What?"

"I don't want to hear this," John informed her, "You shouldn't be talking like this."

Miriam suddenly became aware of what she'd been saying and hurried to defend herself, for she believed it to be right. "Tell me they should be allowed to keep doing this," she challenged him indignantly.

John shook his head. "That isn't the point," he replied calmly.

"Then what is?" Miriam cried.

He sighed, as if it should be obvious, and explained himself. "If you go _looking_ for them, they'll kill you too, and if I let you go, that's on _me,_" he said, "You wouldn't do that to me, would you?" he asked, in an attempt to lighten the mood. He really wasn't good with the serious bits of life.

"If I stay, they'll kill you," she retorted, "Would you do that to me?" She mimicked him.

John shook his head. "I'm not saying that I like that prospect, –trust me, I much prefer being alive– but you can't go looking for death."

Miriam threw her hands in the air. "Someone has to put a stop to it–"

"Why you? What about the cops?"

"Oh, _there's_ a great conversation. 'Hi, I'm Miriam Yager, I've been experimented on by some evil scientists and now I have superpowers! I just attacked a receptionist and am currently being hunted by the police! Would you mind finding the evil scientists and putting them in jail? Thanks, bye!'" She said all of this in a sugary-sweet "I can do no wrong" voice and punctuated it with her signature eye roll. "Right. I think I'll pass."

John tried, –he really did– but he couldn't come up with an argument for that. "I thought you were under the impression you aren't a superhero," he said quietly.

Miriam huffed. "I was exaggerating."

"You can't go looking for it."

Miriam made no promises.

-l-l-l-l-l-

The next morning, when John woke up, he was faced with an empty couch.

He cursed.

Of course she hadn't listened to him.

-l-l-l-l-l-

He should've been relieved that she was gone. He should've been glad she wasn't dragging him further into her problems. He should've been happy that he was no longer harboring a fugitive.

But he wasn't.

John Smith was angry. He was worried about what had happened to her. He was afraid of what she might have done.

He wasn't expecting to find her so easily.

John wasn't ever quite sure why, but he had started automatically with his own building. Perhaps fate had taken a special interest in Miriam Yager's story and was helping him along. Perhaps it was chance. Either way, he found her in the super's office.

The super himself was seated across from Miriam, behind his desk. They had papers splayed out on the desk in front of them and broke off their conversation when John burst into the room.

He stood in the doorway, utterly confused.

The super, –Peter Allen– heaved himself up, onto his feet, in surprise. Miriam turned in her seat to look at him. "What are you doing here?" she asked in surprise, "I thought you were asleep."

"Yeah, I was. I thought– what are you doing?" John stuttered, his arms flopping down to his sides helplessly.

"What does it _look_ like I'm doing?" Miriam asked rhetorically, "I'm signing papers."

Peter Allen looked between the two of them. "Do you know each other?" The answer was a bit obvious, so neither party graced it with an answer. Miriam almost, _almost_, gave him a "duh," but she held herself back. A "duh" wasn't a great idea, at the moment.

"But you– and the– but…" John trailed off, his sleep deprived mind unable to comprehend, "_What?_" he demanded, when he saw them both staring at him.

Peter spoke first. "Is there something we can help you with, Mr. Smith?"

John shook his head. "No," he said, "I was just– Never mind." With that, he turned and left the super's office.

"Friend of yours?" the super inquired, as they turned back to the papers.

Miriam nodded. "Something like that."

"Now then," Peter Allen said, gesturing to the papers, "What was your name again?"

"Lana Tyler," Miriam replied, giving absolutely no indication that she was lying.

-l-l-l-l-l-

It was revealed to John Smith, not too much later, that Miriam Yager had been signing the papers required to lease an apartment.

This was a great relief to Miriam, as she had hated her dependency on John. Not that she didn't like John, she just liked to be independent.

She took an apartment in John's building for two reasons. First and foremost, to watch him. She didn't know if the people from the facility had tracked her here and she was by no means going to let them kill someone else for helping her. Secondly, because it was practical; she was already there and didn't feel like going "apartment hunting." It really wasn't the sort of thing she cared much about or for.

For the first four weeks of her time spent there, life was quiet. Things were normal– as normal as they could get for Miriam, anyway. She fell into her routine quickly.

Up by seven. Dressed and breakfasted by seven-forty-five. Across the street and wearing her Starbucks apron by eight. Churning out mochas and frappuccinos by eight-oh-one. Smiling at customers and wishing them a "nice day," while frantically watching the streets through the front window for strange activity. Smiling some more. Back at her apartment by three. Watching the halls for people she didn't recognize.

Rinse, and repeat.

But by the third week, her routine had begun to bore her. Miriam Yager wasn't cut out for mundane work, and an idle mind makes for trouble.

By the fifth week, the guilt was beginning to eat at her. The farmer haunted her dreams.

In the sixth week, the farmer stood over her shoulder while she mixed the cream into the coffee.

By the forty-seventh day since her escape, the farmer followed her like the Reaper, waiting patiently for her time to come. The receptionist joined him at her other shoulder and together, they cast a shadow over everything she did.

Eleven days after the receptionist joined the farmer, they moved from the shadows, into the light and danced. The receptionist waved his arms and blew air horns, demanding not to be ignored. Demanding that she see herself for what she was. The farmer stood quietly and regarded her with judgement in his eyes.

On the seventy-first day, it became too much.

So, she jumped.

And woke up.

She took the pills.

And woke up.

She inhaled the water.

And woke up.

She sent a bullet through her head.

And woke up.

She got the message.

And cleaned up.

**A/N: Hey! I don't usually put ANs at the end a piece, (I feel like they take away from the *wham!* at the end of a bit. Anyway...) but I felt as if I should mention that I'm now available for Beta-ing. So yeah. There's a thing. Hope y'all are enjoying this so far! I've been way more than thrilled with the response this has gotten! Thank you all –again– for all the reviews/follows/favorites! They mean so much more than I can tell you! 3**


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: I just want to say thank you again, for all the awesome reviews and follows/favorites! They mean a lot! Okay, we're on the second to last chapter– brace yourselves! Ahh!**

John was sitting on his couch, reading.

The lone gunshot rang through the apartment building.

John found her soon after.

"What was _that?_" he spluttered, throwing her door open. She'd given him a key in case of emergencies, though this wasn't the emergency she'd anticipated. Miriam had thought it'd be more of the "someone's trying to kill me!" type.

Miriam froze, dropping the red paper-towels into the garbage can. She kept her back carefully toward him, unsure how her forehead looked. "Nothing," she replied, "I don't know. It didn't come from here."

But John had already seen the mess in the bathroom. "What– what the _hell–"_

Miriam slammed the door in his face.

"Miriam Yager, you open this door–" John hollered, his demands reminding Miriam of the foster mothers that had shouted those very words, "or I'll– I'll tell Allen who you are! _Dammit, _Miriam, I swear–"

Miriam relented. She couldn't risk being found.

When John was finally admitted to the bathroom, he rushed in, only to stop dead in his tracks. It took him exactly three-point-seven seconds to comprehend what he was looking at.

John turned wordlessly around and stared at Miriam, who was now hovering in the doorway. Her expression was defiant, daring him to confront her.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?!" he cried, his hands flapping wildly at his sides.

Miriam glared at him. "It was my choice." She set her jaw. "It didn't work anyway, _obviously_."

Then John looked around. _Really_ looked around. And then he wasn't angry; he was confused. "But– what– _how?_"

"How _the hell_ am I supposed to know?" Miriam bellowed, "If I knew– If I knew a single _thing_ about myself– do you think I'd be here? Would I have had to–"

"What were you _thinking?_"

Right then? She was thinking a few things. Most of them involved telling John to have sexual relations with himself. But that isn't what she said. "It's my choice," she repeated herself, her tone more calm, more reasonable.

"Your _choice?_" John roared, "You don't get to _choose _this!"

"I already did," Miriam said softly, "I shouldn't exist. I'm wrong."

"You're still a person!"

"Am I?" she murmured, "Because I've thought about it. A lot. A whole fucking lot. And I don't think I qualify anymore."

John stared at her, his mouth gaping open. "You're a person," he said, no longer yelling, though certainly still speaking louder than normal, "You're a great person."

Miriam wouldn't meet his eyes. "I'm not," she disagreed, "I'm different now."

"Different can be good."

"Different is what killed the farmer," she returned, "Different is what almost killed the receptionist. Different kills." And then something inside of her snapped. Some little part of her, still with a bit of compassion left, shattered into millions of little pieces. "I'm going," she informed him, "I'm sorry. If I can't end it," her voice remained steady and resolute, "then I have to find out how to keep going. I have to get my answers."

John felt fire begin to pulse through him. He wasn't going to let her go. "You can't!" he protested, his voice loud and strong again, "They'll kill you!"

"That's fine with me," Miriam replied icily, stalking toward the front door.

John dashed after her and grabbed her by her shoulders and held her eyes with his own. "You have so, _so_ much potential," he murmured, "You could be good– there're all those heroes now; you could be one of them–"

"I'm not a hero," Miriam hissed, her response automatic, yanking her arms free of John's grasp. When she paused with one foot out the door, her voice was warm and kind. "You've been a great friend. Thank you."

Then she was gone.

-l-l-l-l-l-

John stayed standing in her apartment for a long time, after that. He was sure some of the other inhabitants of the building had heard them yelling. He didn't really care.

He collapsed into her couch and held his head in his hands. He didn't cry. He wasn't mourning– not yet.

Her couch smelled like dust.

-l-l-l-l-l-

It took Miriam Yager just over an hour to get to the point where she was within a ten block radius of where she thought the facility was. It took her just over an hour-and-a-half to get kidnapped. Again.

-l-l-l-l-l-

She was strapped to a chair. Her hands and feet were restrained in a cool metal. Her mouth was gagged. Judging by the echoes around her, she was placed in the middle of a large room, surrounded by activity.

Miriam opened her eyes.

She was in the same room that she'd been in when she escaped. The people around her, though, were different. The man from the alley leaned against the far wall. A new man leaned over her, staring and prodding her awake.

"Welcome to the land of the living," he greeted her. He formed his words strangely, as if every syllable caused him pain.

"It's not a very nice place," Miriam responded, trying to look nonchalant as she scanned her surroundings, "Is it?"

The man shook his head in agreement. "It is a harsh world," he answered, "A world of pity and despair, yes?"

Miriam watched him as he walked back and forth in front of her.

"It is a dark place that we live," he continued, "A dark place, indeed. But it is necessary for there to be dark, in order to have light. We are that light," he announced, spreading his arms wide, "We rise from the darkness and we will free this world from its chains."

"Go to hell," Miriam responded.

The man turned back toward her, a gleam in his eyes. "You will be headed there soon enough."

Miriam smirked. "You don't scare me."

He shrugged. "Perhaps not. But that is of no matter." The man resumed his lecture. "You, my dear, were an experiment. The lovely –what is it?– Mr. Carlton recommended you for our exploits. He was most adamant that you be used." He paused and spread his hands apart, a gesture that said _what could I do?_ "And who was I to deny him that joy?"

Miriam spat at him. She enjoyed watching features twist to indicate his disgust.

"So we used you. You were brilliant, really. So strong… so_ human_… You didn't give up." He spoke reverently, as if he were speaking about a new model of car, or new type of smartphone. As if he were talking about an inanimate object. "It was quite extraordinary, really, to watch you progress–"

"Glad I could entertain you," Miriam interjected. She wriggled her hands slightly, testing her bonds. "So– you experimented on me. I got that much."

The man nodded, his very being becoming animated as he explained this to her. He was a madman, he really was. "You see, years ago, during the second World War, there was a serum developed by an agency called S.H.I.E.L.D. They tested this on a man by the name of Steve Rogers, and it worked. Brilliantly, I may add."

Wisely, Miriam kept her mouth shut. He was about to tell her something. She could feel it in her bones.

"That was a success. Then, later, much, much later, a man by the name of Bruce Banner began experimenting with the serum again– tried to recreate it. Unfortunately for him, there were some… ah, _unwanted_ side effects of his." The man paused briefly and shook his head sadly, as if to say _What a pity– he could have been so great._

"What sort of side-effects?" Miriam inquired. She was being careful. She couldn't distract him now.

The man grinned hugely. "He turns into a giant green monster when he gets angry!" He threw his hands up in the air, completely enthralled. "_Brilliant_– no, _fantastic _isn't it?"

Miriam would've described it differently.

"So, my scientists," he threw his hand out, encasing the room's occupants in his statement, "developed a mixture of the two. The rats all turned out… differently. We couldn't predict their reactions. So, we pushed ahead farther, into the primate lab."

Miriam gaped at him. He was _insane._ Didn't these people _realize_ that?

"The primates were gorgeous. It worked perfectly on them," he continued, "They were absolutely _perfect._ So, we went into human trial. You see, we had planned on making our serum available world-wide– could you imagine? A whole civilization of super-humans! We needed you– well, not you, but s_omeone._ Unfortunately, you decided not to let us help you–"

"Let _you_ help _me?_" Miriam cried indigently, "You _kidnapped me, _then experimented on me! Why would I _want_ your help?"

The man faced her, his eyes boring straight into hers. "Because we can reverse it."

"Reverse it?" Miriam whispered, "Really?"

The man nodded and leaned over her, so close that she could feel his breath on her face. "It's all yours."

"What's the catch?" Miriam demanded.

The man pulled away. "No catch," he promised her, "We simply can't have you running around like this. Bad PA, and all that."

"Bad _PA_," Miriam repeated, completely aghast.

The man jerked his chin in assent. "Of course."

Miriam opened her mouth to request that they do whatever it was that reversed it _now_, but something stopped her. Because maybe, just a little bit, deep down, a small little mustard seed of hope had planted itself in Miriam. Maybe it had broken open and put down a root. Maybe Miriam Yager hoped she could be the hero John thought she was.

Maybe.

"Of course, there _is_ a requirement," the man went on.

"What sort of requirement?" Miriam asked, her voice uncertain.

"We can't, of course, have you tell everyone about us," the man said, "So, your project will be terminated."

Miriam tossed her head, throwing a lock of hair back over her shoulder. "What does that _mean?_"

The man looked down at her. He seemed truly distraught by what he said next. "We'll have to kill you."

Miriam laughed. She actually laughed. "Good luck with that," she replied, "I've been trying all month."

The man smiled. "But we can reverse it– if we reverse it first, then kill you… You'll stay dead," he promised her.

Wasn't that what Miriam wanted? Wasn't that what she had been striving for? The easy way out?

She wanted to tell him to do it. She wanted to force him to do it. She wanted to want it.

But she didn't.

In that moment, something inside of her– some broken bit of her– knit itself back together and became whole again. She felt her heart rate increase minutely, her cheeks flush with just a little more life, and when she blinked, the world came back into focus. She saw things the way they truly were, not with the shadows and darkness that had fallen over them in the weeks previous.

She didn't want to die.

_Great,_ she thought,_ Just in time, too._

The man approached her with a syringe. She didn't have to ask to know that it was the reversal serum.

He wiped the crook of her arm with an antibiotic and positioned the syringe over her vein.

Miriam struggled, but her bonds were made of something stronger than she had anticipated. Something stronger than she'd ever encountered, which wasn't actually saying all that much, but strong nonetheless.

She could feel the circles of metal around her wrists begin to bend, but she wasn't fast enough.

He seemed to be savoring the moment, hesitating ever so slightly, before moving his thumb over the plunger.

Miriam struggled.

A window broke.


	9. Chapter 8

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Steve Rogers or Nick Fury. They're, sadly, not mine, nor are the rights to any of the **_**Marvel**_ **movies.**

**A/N: Guys. Last. Chapter. I'M FREAKING OUT HERE! Huge, _huge, HUGE _thanks to everyone who has reviewed, followed, and favorited this story. It means so, so, so much to me. Hugs for everyone! If you don't mind dropping a review, telling me what you thought... ya know... *hint hint, wink wink, nudge nudge***

**_I do not _****_encourage_****_self-harm and/or suicide._**** They are being used ****_only_**** as literary devices and ****_are never the answer._****  
**

**Here we go. Brace yourselves.**

* * *

The man pulled his arm back in shock, taking the syringe with it, and spun around to better see the now broken window.

A man crouched amidst the shards, his body covered in black. The word SHIELD was emblazoned across his back in bright, yellow lettering. A gun rested in a holster, cutting through the "HIE."

He rolled gracefully to his feet and pulled the gun from his back.

The people in the room had frozen when the newcomer burst in, but now, almost as one, began a mad dash toward the nearest exit. The man who had been standing over her made for his desk and began clicking furiously on the computer.

More men, covered in the same black material, came pouring in through the doors, effectively cutting them off.

Miriam didn't want to bring attention to herself, so she sat as still as she could and hardly dared to breathe. The metal around her wrists was weakening. If she could just have another minute…

"There!" one of the men called, his arm raised toward Miriam.

Miriam pulled her wrists harder. She was so, _so _close…

One of the S.H.I.E.L.D. emblazoned men came darting over to her. She wasn't sure what she was expecting him to do, but it certainly wasn't to pause beside her, raise his gun, and pull the trigger.

Miriam flinched and squeezed her eyes shut, as the bullet left the chamber. But when nothing came smashing into her head, she opened her eyes into slits, then let her eyelids pull back the rest of the way.

The scientist was splayed across the floor, the blood from his head already beginning to pool beneath him. He wasn't pale or stiff-looking, yet. He still looked as if he could jump up and resume his speech about the miracles they'd performed on Miriam– and why it was just _too bad_ that they'd have to terminate her project. In her imagination, he picked himself back up, brushed himself off, and continued to inadvertently explain things to her.

But, this was the real world and her dreams were only that– her dreams.

Miriam was sorry to see him go.

"Miss Yager," the man greeted her, giving a curt nod.

Miriam didn't acknowledge him. She felt her feet pull free of her bonds. _Finally._

Around her, the scientists were lifting their hands in surrender. Some of them were terrified, others defiant. Most of them simply seemed confused. Miriam was one of them.

"You're safe now," the man beside her added. If she'd been able to see his eyes, she would've been sure they were having trouble leaving her own.

The men in black began handcuffing the scientists and leading them away. This created a flurry of activity that allowed Miriam to yank her wrists free and bolt for the window.

She heard guns cock. She sensed them turn toward her.

It wasn't that she was afraid of the guns, nor was it that she feared being shot, –that'd happened to her once today, already– it was simply that she didn't fancy being shot so _many_ times at once. Besides, Miriam couldn't be sure of the extent of what she could do. The men marked S.H.I.E.L.D. had killed her only way of finding out.

"Freeze!" The command was short and filled with authority.

Miriam obliged. She turned slowly, her hands above her. The metal bonds twinkled like jewelry in the light. "I'm not one of them," she told them, her voice a perfect imitation of frozen water.

"We know," one of the S.H.I.E.L.D. men assured her.

Miriam blinked once, a deer in headlights. "Then why are your guns pointed at me?"

"Because you're like me." The statement was issued from across the room, by a man in a red, white, and blue outfit. There was no insignia across his back, which made Miriam relax a bit. He was tall, –very tall– incredibly muscular, and everything about him radiated _strong._ He moved with long, sure steps. He reminded Miriam of herself.

Miriam tossed her hair indignantly. "No one's like me," she replied, her voice unwavering, but still sad and broken.

The star-spangled stranger approached her cautiously, ignoring the guns now pointed at his back. "Not the same serum," he said, "but virtually the same effects."

Miriam looked him up and down, her eyes gradually filling with wonder. "But–"

"Steve Rogers," he said, his hand extended.

Miriam shook. He grasp was firm and strong. Painful, even, to the average person. But Miriam wasn't average. She felt the strength flowing through him– the same strength that flowed through her, now.

She looked up at him and caught his eye. He looked young, but his eyes were old and sorrowful. She saw the utility belt strapped to his thighs and the shield on his back. She saw the way he stood out among these uniformed men, a beam of light in the dark.

"How does that explain the guns, then?" Miriam inquired, dropping his hand.

Steve Rogers looked uncomfortable. "You're also like one of my friends–"

"Bruce Banner," Miriam guessed, remembering the name the dead man had dropped, "The green monster."

He nodded. "We're just being careful," he assured her.

Miriam would've liked to be mad– to find this distrust enraging. But she didn't. She remembered the receptionist– how she'd snapped. These men were right to be wary.

"Who are you?" she asked, trying to ignore the barrels aimed at her.

"Steve Rogers," he repeated, "I work for S.H.I.E.L.D.," he gestured to the men around them, "The people here worked a group called Hydra. They've been experimenting…" he trailed off, staring at her as she were a bad omen, "Looks like it worked."

"I'm not going to hurt anyone," Miriam pleaded, "Tell them to put the guns down."

Steve regarded her for a moment, before consenting.

"_Thank _you." With that, Miriam spun and vaulted out the window.

She heard shouts as she hit the pavement, but she didn't stop.

Running was what she was good at.

She heard a _thud_ as someone followed her out the window. As she sped around a corner, she caught a glimpse of the red, white, and blue man, hot on her tail.

Miriam was fast. But Steve, after more than a lifetime of training, was faster.

"On your left," Steve huffed, as he came up beside her. Then, he turned, grabbed Miriam by the cuffs on her wrists, and pulled her to the ground. He landed on top of her and his weight held her down against the concrete sidewalk. This particular area was blessedly empty of pedestrians. "We don't want to hurt you," he promised her.

"Do you point guns at everyone you don't want to hurt?" Miriam asked rhetorically.

"Do you see a gun, now?" he inquired, struggling to catch her eye, "Look at me. No gun."

Miriam looked him up and down. He was right, of course. He carried no gun. He probably didn't need it.

"We've been watching you," he told her, his words coming rapidly and flowing together, "ever since we found out what they were doing–"

"Why didn't you stop them sooner?" Miriam demanded through her teeth.

"We didn't know until you escaped," Steve said, "Agent Smith –you know him– John Smith got to you first."

"_John Smith?_" Miriam repeated, "I knew that couldn't be his name."

Steve smirked. "It is, actually. He got to you, kept you safe–"

"_He _kept _me_ safe?" Miriam repeated Steve again, "_I _was keeping _him_ safe!"

"Right– yeah, okay. Not the point. Either way, you're safe now." He finally caught her eye. "_You're safe._"

"And you're on top of me," Miriam quipped, to cover her wheeling mind. John Smith had seemed so ordinary… But why else had he invited her into his home? _Stupid_, she chastised herself, _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

Steve rolled off of her and helped her up.

For a second, before he was off of her, Miriam had been tempted to see if she could throw him off of herself, and if she could, how far he'd go. But, if these people really didn't want to hurt her, she wasn't about to break whatever trust they'd put in her.

"So now what?" Miriam asked, brushing herself off and attempting to maintain some dignity.

Steve pointed at a eye-patch wearing man, in a long coat, heading their way. "You talk to him."

"Talk to who?" But Steve Rogers was already walking away, rejoining the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.

The eye-patch man came up to her, observed her with his good eye, and spoke in few words. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Yager."

Miriam eyed him warily. "Whatdya want?"

"To offer you a job," Eye-patch man answered.

The last time Miriam had heard those words, this whole mess had began. She took a step back and kept her gaze on his hands, searching for signs that he was about to inject her with something.

"With us," Eye-patch man went on, "If you're willing, of course."

Miriam drew her gaze upward and fixed it on his good eye. "I don't even know who you are."

"Nick Fury," he stated, "Director of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Good for you." Miriam wasn't impressed.

Nick Fury wasn't fazed. "Do you know how many other people there are, like you?" he asked.

Miriam shook her head.

"I don't know either," he said, "But the ones I do know about make a hell of a difference in our world."

"John said that," Miriam realized, "He was always going on about how I'm a hero."

"Are you?" Nick Fury queried, his head slightly tilted.

Miriam cast her eyes down once more. "No."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Nick Fury replied. He waited.

Miriam made no response.

"It's your choice, of course," Nick Fury continued, "whether you join us or not."

Miriam hesitated a split second, before making her choice. "Not."

If her refusal affected Nick Fury at all, he didn't show it. "Very well." He began to walk back toward the building, but paused across the street. "My offer stands," he called.

Miriam pretended not to hear and walked briskly away.

A light mist began, as she pushed the door to her apartment building open. She stood for a moment, as it began to pick up and turn into real rain, staring up at the sky.

The threat of the facility –Hydra– was gone. S.H.I.E.L.D. would leave her alone. Life could go back to normal. And that was good.

She went inside.

-l-l-l-l-l-

Steve Rogers was a soldier. Fighting for the good guys. Someday, maybe Miriam Yager would join him. But not yet.

_Not yet._


End file.
